Skin is in the attic next to AUX cords and Mom’s old Polaroid. My teen brother dunked his body in melted aluminum.
“That’s bold.” I say.
“I don’t expect someone who still wears mutated lizard scales with leather chaps to understand,” he says.
The resentment in his voice hurts like a hard pinch. Time doesn’t fly, it shoots. I remember when tungsten was trendy. I remember when some skin was vintage cool. I remember he was only 10 when the moon hatched. Everyone watched as the beautiful bird lived juuussst long enough to die. A rainbow of tail feathers wreathed the world. People prayed in the streets. I remember reading a Cosmopolitan article about tragedy’s influence on fashion trends.
Sometimes, my teen brother and I smoke a substance under the giant corpse and everything smells like lead. We wear skin just so soot stains our fingers. The vibe is tight as fuck. The years between us fade like distressed denim, and our hallucinations never change. Sometimes we argue over what’s real. Sometimes the night turns, and I get older.